


World On Fire

by loves_books



Category: A-Team (2010), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 04:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Face is sick and running a high fever with all that entails, and Hannibal takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World On Fire

The whole world is on fire. It must be – nothing else could produce this burning, unending heat that consumes his entire being. Nothing else exists but the fire. He doesn’t know, or even care, which way is up or down, isn’t really aware of anything apart from the desperate longing for relief from this furnace his body is trapped in.

Strong arms wrap around his fiery body, feeling blessedly cool even through the layers of clothes he still wears. Whimpering, he tries to make his hands cooperate, trying to tear his shirt from his chest, but those strong, firm arms lift him gently up until he is cradled safely against a solid wall of muscle, his arms carefully pinned.

“…got you, Face, I’ve got you now, baby…”

It takes a long moment for the words to sink through the burning fog in his brain, and a longer minute still before recognition arrives, and he feels a little more secure than before, even as the fire burns through his veins, setting every nerve alight.

“Hannibal?” It’s a croak, really, more than anything, his throat drier than it’s ever been. He thinks he would sell his soul right now for a drink of water. “Hot…”

“I know, sweetheart. I know you’re hot.” Hannibal’s voice seems far away, reaching him down a long tunnel, but Face is held tightly and securely. They are moving, he thinks dimly, aware of being carried but unable to force his eyes open. “I’ve got you, love.”

Strong heartbeat beneath his ear as he presses his burning face as close to Hannibal’s chest as he can. Familiar and comforting scent of tobacco and gun oil, soft cotton work shirt gentle on his fiery skin. He longs to move, to cling, hates being carried like this, but the fire has him in its grip, making his limbs quiver. Only Hannibal’s strong hold is keeping him from shaking apart right now.

A soothing litany of words whispered into his ear, but he can’t focus on them, the sound of his own blood rushing through his veins drowning out the sweeter sound of his lover’s voice. The burning world tilts again, spinning backwards on its axis as he is shifted again, soft cotton shirt gone as his limp body is laid down into soft mattress, cool sheets and cooler pillows cradling him.

Again he whimpers – these clothes are strangling him, smothering him, keeping all this fire inside when he needs them to be gone. But stronger hands than his own are right there where he needs them to be, and all he can do is let Hannibal manipulate his traitorous arms and legs, efficiently stripping away his layers, settling his now-naked body back into the pillows.

“Hot…” he gasps again, though the softest breeze can be felt against his superheated skin now, and he feels the goosebumps rise unbidden. “John…”

“Hush, baby. I’m here.” Cool lips pressed to his burning forehead clear his haze for the briefest second, before they are gone again, Hannibal is gone, and he manages to force his eyes open a fraction. The world is far too bright – burning, white hot – and there are shadows in the corners of his eyes, moving, watching.

Against his will, he feels his body thrash again, trying to move up, away from the shadows as they creep closer, but then Hannibal is there, firm hand pressing his chest back down onto the bed, tender fingers stroking through his hair, cooling his mind, and he can’t help but lean into the touch.

“Easy, Face. I’m right here, I’m not leaving you.” Hannibal’s words anchor him again, and he lets his eyes slip closed, even though the light burns through his closed lids and he can feel the shadows hovering. Hands are removed from his skin but before he can protest, the most heavenly, moist coolness arrives, in the form of a cold, wet cloth wiped slowly across his forehead.

“Hmm… More…” he begs, and Hannibal obliges, wiping the cloth gently over his cheeks, his neck, back up to his forehead, leaving a trail of coolness that feels like sheer heaven.

Hannibal is talking again, as the cloth is removed and refreshed before being tenderly patted across his chest, tracing an icy path down across his belly, but Face finds he can’t focus on anything now but the contrast between the blessed coolness and the fever eating his body and mind. Dimly aware he is rolling his head on the pillows, he fades out.

At some point, he comes back to something approaching awareness, body still burning, mind still foggy, entire being still craving coolness. Something cold and wet on his brow, hands on his shaking body stroking gently, but only shadows fill the room when he opens his eyes.

He tries to twist away, unseeing, uncomprehending. Where is Hannibal, why isn’t he here to protect him from the shadows? The shadows lurch and move around him, looming large over the bed, and he moans, trying to swing uncooperative hands up, trying to push them back. Trying to call for Hannibal, but his voice is gone, swallowed by the heat. The shadows fight back, seizing his wrists and forcing his arms back to his sides, stealing all his strength, and he is gone again.

The shivering of his own body brings him back the next time, teeth chattering, muscles quivering. He’d wanted the burning gone, yes, but this is too much, far too cold. Forcing eyes open yet again, he immediately startles when he sees Hannibal leaning over him, then relaxes just a fraction as a blanket is draped over his body.

“Hello there, sweetheart,” Hannibal says, still sounding like he’s a mile away even as he leans even closer. Fingers trail across Face’s cheek before stroking up into his hair, and he manages to move his head into the touch, his lover cupping his cheek gently in response. “Lie still for me, okay? You’re still pretty sick.”

That isn’t right, he thinks, there’s nothing wrong with him except for the ridiculous heat, and now the terrible cold. He shakes his head a little, movement stiff and jerky, unnatural. “Cold,” he manages to choke out, and immediately Hannibal tugs his blanket a little higher, bunching it loosely around his neck.

“Need you to swallow these for me, Temp,” Hannibal’s voice tells him, and then the room spins around Face as he feels his head lifted ever so slightly, pills pressed into his mouth, a straw slipped between his lips. “Drink, kid, it’s just water. You need the fluids.”

Somehow he manages to obey, rewarded with the welcome return of his head to the gentle support of the pillows, and the room solidifies a little around him. “John?” he whispers, fighting once more to keep his eyes open, shivers starting up again, and Hannibal is there, cool lips pressing against his forehead in a soft kiss. “What’s happening?”

“You’re ill, baby, you’ve got a fever.” He blinks slowly up at Hannibal, confused, but the other man asks, “How are you feeling, honestly?”

“I’m still cold,” he murmurs, shivers increasing despite his attempts to follow Hannibal’s orders and lie still. “More blankets, please?”

A cool hand rests tenderly on his forehead, and Hannibal shakes his head slowly, frowning. “Sorry, Temp, you’re way too warm. I know you don’t feel it, but - ”

“Then hold me?” he begs, eyes growing heavier, shivering hard and uncontrollable now, and barely a second later the bed dips slightly and he is lifted again in those strong arms, the world shifting and spinning and fading out and in until finally he feels Hannibal’s warm bulk behind him.

Cradled once more in his lover’s arms, Hannibal’s firm chest pressed to his back, strong hands smoothing calming circles over his stomach beneath the blanket, Face finally starts to relax again. “Better?” Hannibal murmurs into his hair, followed by kiss after kiss after kiss, and all he can do is nod, letting his lover’s warmth start to soothe his aching body. His shivers settle slowly, and he thinks he could drift away again, but his eyes won’t stay closed now.

Everything hurts, and he’s still a little cold, and his head is throbbing, feeling like it’s full of burning cotton wool. But Hannibal seems to sense his distress, wrapping his strong arms around Face’s chest and pulling him closer, making sure his one blanket is snug, whispering soothing nonsense the whole time. Only odd words and phrases penetrate Face’s fog. 

“…love you so much… all going to be fine… sweetheart….try and sleep… my precious boy…”

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, thinking he’d never drift off, hot tears of frustration escaping his dry eyes, but at some point the fire has returned and the whole world is ablaze and Hannibal is gone.

That wonderfully cool cloth is back on his forehead, but it isn’t enough, and he twists, moans, reaches out for something, anything, anyone. Someone takes his hand, squeezing gently before lifting his arm up and away from his body, and something that burns cold is tucked under his armpit, draped up to rest on his chest. Ice, maybe, or something frozen.

The same happens under his other arm, the cold threatening to steal his breath away even as the fire continues to burn through his body, and time soon loses all meaning as he burns hot and cold, wet cloths wiped over his face, his arms, his legs, ice packs changed then changed again, pills coaxed into his mouth followed by sips of water he somehow chokes down.

Throughout it all, someone is there with him, holding his hand, kissing his sweaty brow, whispering tenderly in his ear, though he can’t hear the words. Somewhere deep inside, he knows it must be Hannibal, his colonel, his lover, but all he really knows is a faint sense of comfort and love and care as his world contracts to heat and ice and wishing everything would just end.

And then it does. Just like that, everything snaps back into focus, and Face blinks heavy, tired eyes, finally taking in the details of the room in which he is lying.

Sunlight through the blinds over wide windows, casting soft stripes of light across his bed. A thin blanket tucked tightly around him, though he can feel he is still naked beneath its gentle warmth. Soft pillows beneath his head. A chair by his bedside, empty.

Footsteps coming closer, and he rolls his head on the pillow to face the door, forcing a smile as Hannibal enters, a bowl in his hands and towels draped over one arm. “Hey, boss,” he croaks, and is that really how his voice sounds right now?

“Face? You’re awake?” His hearing is finally back to normal, it seems, and the note of relief in Hannibal’s voice is unmistakeable. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? You’ve had a rough night.”

He takes a moment to assess himself. “Feel tired, shaky,” he confesses, and he really does. His body feels like it isn’t his, heart racing and muscles aching, like maybe he’s been worked over by thugs. Even the effort needed to follow Hannibal’s movements with his eyes is almost too much for him, as his lover quickly crosses the room to his side, soaking a new towel in the bowl and folding it before resting it carefully on Face’s forehead. He sighs into the coolness, and Hannibal frowns a little.

“Your fever spiked pretty high during the night, kid,” Hannibal tells him, bathing his face gently, worry and love in his pale blue eyes. “I think you’re over the worst of it, but you’ve still got a temperature. You need to rest up and let me take care of you, okay?”

“’kay.” He agrees willingly, and the concern that flickers over his lover’s face is lost on him as he closes his eyes again, breathing deeply and slowly, hating the ache that seems to have settled in each and every one of his bones.

He drifts in and out for what must be hours, watching the patterns of light change on his blanket as the sun climbs higher in the sky. Hannibal is quieter now, barely leaving his side, continuing to run that cold cloth over his brow, folding back the blanket when he burns again, tugging it close when he shivers, and he feels a little guilty, knowing his lover has probably been up all night taking care of him. But each time he starts to apologise, Hannibal hushes him gently, pressing comforting kisses to his dry lips, and he is soothed back into that not-quite-asleep, not-quite-awake state where nothing seems to matter.

Hannibal continues to feed him sips of water whenever he can, and Face knows he should drink more, though he can barely muster the energy to swallow, let alone care. He hates this stage of being sick, over the worst but nowhere near better, knows he’s moody and cranky and awkward, and he’s so tired but he can’t sleep, and he can’t keep himself from snapping weakly, especially when his lover suggests getting him some soup.

“You have to eat something, baby.” Hannibal isn’t quite begging, but there is a note of something in his voice. “We need to get your strength up.”

“No.” The thought of food makes his stomach turn, and since he’s managed so far without throwing up, he wants to keep it that way. “I’m not hungry, Boss. I can’t…”

And for a while, Hannibal lets him get away with it, spooning up with Face when his shivers start to get the better of him again, peppering little kisses across his shaking shoulders. Then the shivers are gone, and he is sweating so much it feels like he’ll never be clean again, the fog threatening to descend again. His lover sits on the edge of the bed beside him, mopping at his chest and neck, more words of love and comfort as his fever finally breaks, leaving him drained and sweaty and so, so exhausted.

“There you go,” Hannibal whispers, kissing him on the lips this time. “That’s gotta feel better.” Before Face can summon the energy to argue, his lover smiles gently down at him. “Let’s get you cleaned up and then you can sleep, okay?”

For the first time in what seems like days, Face finds he needs to use the bathroom. The fever had drained him of much needed fluids before, but now Hannibal helps him sit up on the edge of the bed, steadying him when the room spins around him once more, swinging him up into his arms when his legs are too shaky to support his weight, and carries him safely in his arms to the toilet and back again. 

Hannibal fetches fresh water, warm and soapy this time, and gently washes the sweat and grime from his body, soft cloths cleaning carefully between his fingers and toes, warm towels patting him dry, and Face just lets it happen, watching through hooded eyes, basking in the love so clear in every touch he feels. He’s starting to feel a little more human now, knows he would be feeling even more human if he’d let his lover feed him some of that soup he threatened, but he hasn’t the strength to help, not even to lift his little finger. He knows he scared Hannibal a little this time – there is an edge of desperation to the kisses Hannibal presses to his lips, to the lingering strokes of gentle fingers up his sides as he follows the washcloth.

When he is finally clean, Hannibal lifts him one last time, shifting him to the opposite side of the bed, into the cleaner sheets and fresh pillows, before lying down beside him and carefully lifting him into his arms. With his head pillowed on his lover’s firm chest, with strong arms anchoring his still-aching body, with kisses pressed into his greasy hair, Face finally feels he can sleep at last. 

The shadows are gone, and it is blessed darkness that falls over him now, the world no longer burning hot, no longer full of ice. Held safe and secure in loving arms, he is Hannibal’s world and Hannibal is his.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for virgo_79 at ATeam-Prompts for the following prompt:
> 
> Face is sick and running a bad fever, with all that entails -- achy, weak, chills, can't sleep, won't eat -- and Hannibal takes care of him. I probably don't need to come and out and say that this needs to involve the gentle stripping off of clothing and sponging down with cool water, but I like saying it, so I am. Other things which please the gods are Hannibal carrying Face, and the use of body heat to combat fever chills.


End file.
